The Hurry Krishna

Barry grew up next door. He was older than I was, and somewhat of a troubled guy.

And also a Bisy Backson.

In A House at Pooh Corner, Rabbit goes to visit Christopher Robin, but he isn’t home. Christopher has left a note that says, “GON OUT / BACKSON / BISY / BACKSON.

Benjamin Hoff wrote a great little book called The Tao of Pooh, where he uses the stories of Winnie-the-Pooh to explain Taoism, the ancient Eastern philosophy.

In it, he identifies the “Bisy Backson” as a person who believes constant activity is the key to happiness. The Backson is never still, never content. They’re the ones pacing the floor, tapping their feet, rattling change in their pockets. People who believe that if they keep moving fast enough, happiness will eventually surrender.

Pooh, on the other hand, describes them as “People who burn their toast a lot”.

Barry spoke quickly, moved swiftly, and was always scheming.

A Backson.

One day, he ran away from home. I was amazed. No one had ever told me that was an option—that you could just pack a bag, leave a “I’m never coming back” note, and leave home forever.

What a power move.

Of course, I was never brave enough to try it myself.

I imagined he’d made it to some Never, Neverland, where kids could do whatever the hell they wanted.

I didn’t have to wonder for long.

At the bottom of our garden was a thicket of wild bamboo, a natural screen between us and the house. At some point, we’d dug a hole there for some long-forgotten reason, covered it with a plank, and forgotten about it.

That’s where Barry had run away to. The bottom of our garden.

Not-So-Clever, Cleverland.

When I found him, I inadvertently brought about his downfall. He was starving and asked me for a peanut butter and jam sandwich.

My mom caught me making it, something I’d never done before. Suspicious, she followed me.

Barry was busted. His bid for freedom lasted less than a day.

Years pass.

I’m out jorling in Hillbrow when I’m suddenly surrounded by a swarm of shaven-headed Hare Krishnas in matching orange loincloths, banging little drums and chanting, “Hare Krishna, Hare, Hare.” I can’t remember whether they were selling books or just straight-out asking for money.

But there, in the middle of them all, Barry.

My sweet lord.

It took me a moment to recognise him. This wasn’t the fast-talking Barry I knew. It was weird. I gave him some money; he smiled trance-like at me and disappeared back into the swaying, chanting group. And off they went.

Okay.

Years pass.

I have a super kak gig, filming at the Bronkhorstspruit Show.

Picture it, peak Apartheid, an Afrikaans agricultural show, everyone looks like a security policeman.

And there’s Barry, of all people, selling these crappy original oil paintings. Sunset landscapes with elaborate clouds and pine trees reflected in a lake, stuff like that.

WTF?

He had hair. He was clean-shaven. Wearing a bad check jacket, collared shirt, and tie. He looked… well, like a guy who sells crappy oil paintings at an Afrikaans agricultural show.

Anyway, afterwards, I needed a lift home; thankfully, he offered.

On the way back, fast-talking Barry laid it all out. He was still a Hare Krishna, just allowed to grow his hair out to go undercover—all part of the plan.

The Hare Krishna master plan for world domination.

I wish I could remember the details, but it was something like: “We’re not going for ordinary people. We’re targeting the top. We’re influencing leaders. We’re making moves. Eventually, we’ll control the world.”

Apparently, the oil paintings helped finance the entire operation.

I thought, Okay. Shit.

Better be nice to Barry. I might need a job in the New World Order.

Years pass.

I’m in London. Avoiding conscription, trying to earn some pounds. It’s not going well. It’s Thatcher’s bloody Britain, and jobs are scarce.

I’m living in a squat that used to be a home for wayward boys, and in some ways, still was. Everyone’s hustling, scrambling for dosh, and getting pretty creative about it.

One guy’s donating sperm, twenty quid a pop. Another has signed up for experimental drug trials. What the pharmaceutical companies didn’t know was that he’d enrolled in two separate tests with rival firms, at the same time, which doubled the cash but completely sabotaged the science.

I, of course, wasn’t brave enough to do either.

Then one day, I come bounding out of the squat and startle this guy with his back to me. He spins around and pulls a knife.

Well, I say a knife, actually, a pen knife, with a teeny, tiny, little blade. He says, “Give me all your money.”

I just stared at his tiny knife, wondering: How many times would he have to stab me before I even noticed?

Anyway, all my money was one pound. So I gave him that.

He looked at it. Then he looked at me. And it was like he thought, “Well, that’s probably about right.”

Then he slowly wandered off. Didn’t run, just sauntered away.

Did I mention he had a spiderweb tattoo on his face?

It’s not exactly going to be hard to pick him out in the police line-up.

The worst criminal ever.

Even more ridiculous: I kept seeing him around the neighbourhood. Eventually, we started waving at each other like old friends. I guess he knew a guy living in a squat wasn’t going to the cops.

Anyway, now I really needed cash.

As fate would have it, I’m at this anti-apartheid march, part of a ragtag group chanting, banging little drums, and trying to flog socialist newspapers.

And then, like an apparition, Barry appears out of the crowd.

WTF?

Just to be clear, this was a march made up of punks, gypsies, anarchists, and the like. The people at the bottom, not the ones at the top, Gary and his merry men, were supposedly targeting.

I only realised later that he was there looking for South Africans.

And he found me.

He was a blur of jerky movement and rapid-fire chatter.

“Listen, man, if you let me deliver a little package to your house”

Okay stop right there that’s as dodgy as fuck.

“I’ll pay you £800.”

Wait what? £800.

That was, like, five years’ worth of selling your semen.

Receiving a little package, how hard could that be?

“Okay, cool.” I said.

He took my address, and before I could change my mind, he was gone.

Barry always in a hurry.

And then I completely forgot about it.

Until one day—knock knock—there are these guys at the door with a crate.

Not a parcel. Not a package. A gigantic crate.

Huh. Wonder what that is.

“Delivery for you.”
“Errrrr. Okay.”
They bring the crate in and leave.

And then, I just bolt. I get the hell out of the house.

I go stand across the street, heart pounding, watching the front door like it’s about to explode.

All I can think about is my housemates: These poor guys. They took me in, let me stay, and now they’re going to get arrested—for guns, or drugs, or fuck knows what’s in that crate.

They’re never even going to know how it happened.

Anyway, Barry did turn up, about half an hour later.

He gave me the £800, took the crate, and that was it.

I never saw him again.

Many years later, Barry died in a hail of bullets in what was rumoured to be a drug deal gone wrong.

I remembered the Tao of Pooh: “The Backsons are always busy trying to change and conquer the world, instead of changing and conquering themselves”.

Hmmmm.

Never did find out what was in the crate.